Mythical Music from the
Cameroon Horns
By Milan Tomljanović/ photo Stipe Surać

It was the hottest part of the day, the early afternoon, and the streets were almost completely empty. All the people stayed inside in the cool of their houses to sleep. Through an open window, behind curtains, a loud snoring could be heard, like a foghorn. Insects could be heard in the thick grass by the road, cats were shrieking, there was the smell of rosemary and of fish grilled on embers. Blue and white boats bobbed on the water in the tiny port, their sails flapping in the breeze. Each successive wave left some pebbles behind as it receded, making a gurgling sound. As the heat grew, the reflection from the island houses became more dazzling. The sun was scorching the stone walls. A sleepy silence reigned in Selca.

Just before eight, suddenly and without announcement, the place came alive. Without waiting for the end of the long summer day, citizens came out for a stroll around the port. Families, couples and groups of tourists walked alongside the bay, gently sniffing the scent of the sea at low tide. On the right of the bay houses, shops and restaurants lay, with tables stacked in the yards. Similarly on the left side – steep staircases, windows sheltered by shutters and gnarled trees. Nearby this port there was another one, smaller, where fishing boats landed, and further on there was a run-down sardine canning factory, the only industry worth mentioning on the island of Dugi otok. Many of the islanders got employment there until they could no longer work.

At that spot, in the small port in front of a decrepit building with a peeling facade, a man in a white shirt and black trousers emerged. He also wore a black waistcoat and fisherman’s cap, and held in his hand a hollow ox-horn. He walked casually, and unnoticed, amongst the crowd. He stopped, glanced around, drew the ox-horn up to his mouth and blew.

When he blew from the depths of the horn, it was as if he sent a signal from another time and place. It was as if time was turned around, twisted back, tumbled down and reinstated once again. The sound of the horn passed through the air like a shoal of jellyfish, like a wandering spirit, and then came an echo of the same melody from a distance, remote, and barely audible. Judging by the sound, it was also coming from ox-horns. The sounds were getting closer, then becoming distorted, then being lost in the distance. There was no wind any longer, nor the sound of waves. The music could be heard louder and more expressively. It rang in the uneven, sharp sound of live music, not like one from loudspeakers. As well as the horn, you could make out the sound of drums, tambours and cymbals. No other sound could be heard, no singing, no human voices, just this music, playing endlessly in an absentminded, almost monotonous rhythm. A shudder and thrill passed through me. The music echoed deeply within me. I decided to walk towards the music. I had to find out where it came from and who was playing it.

The full article can be found on pages 68-75 of Vol 3
2007 issue.